


unspoken truths.

by krysalla



Category: Mayans M.C. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, plus size reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 02:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19075828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krysalla/pseuds/krysalla
Summary: Angel rolls his eyes and tries to focus his attention on the game of pool in front of him. He’s losing, but that isn’t his fault. You keep distracting him and Mitch—he’s damn near sure his name is Mitch—keeps getting too close to you for Angel’s comfort.He lines up the cue stick with the ball and bends over, trying to find the right angle, and right as he’s about to shoot the ball and hopefully land a winning shot, he looks up and sees you, you’re back pressed against the bar and your arms wrapped around Mitch’s neck, his hands on your hips and locking you into a very passionate kiss.Angel misses his shot and Coco lets out a bark of laughter and gestures for the money he is now owed.***You and Angel are fools in love but too cowardly to admit to it.





	unspoken truths.

His feet drag against the worn down wood of the entryway. He wants nothing more than to fall into bed. The ride had been long, only to turn around and come back to Santo Padre. Angel needs a break, or at least sleep for 12 hours to recharge.

Music flows, soft and steady, from the bathroom. There’s a trace of vanilla in the air. Angel makes his way to the source and knocks on the bathroom door. 

“Come in,” your voice is hoarse and low. Not the best sign. 

He opens the door and finds two feet pressed against the wall of the shower, close to the faucet,  covered in bubbles and the curtain drawn around the tub slightly to afford yourself some privacy. 

“How was your date?” he sits on the bathmat, legs bent at the knee and arms hanging off of his knees, waiting patiently for your response. 

You suck in a deep breath and the water sloshes, your feet coming off from the wall, disappearing completely from his sight, only a slight shadow against the curtain. 

“Not good.”

He sighs and leans back against the wall. It’s become a pattern in the last few months. You’ve been trying hard to get out there and to make an effort, finally fed up with being single. You’d been devastated when you’d been stood up the first time, almost inconsolable. Angel had no idea how long you’d been curled up on the couch staring at a blank television screen when he’d come back from a run. You didn’t seek out any new dates for a month after that. 

“What happened?”

“Told me I was fatter than he thought I’d be,” you laugh wetly and sniff, “Guess it was good he told me straight up and didn’t waste our time.”

Angel grimaces. It’s not the first time you’ve come back to the shared apartment with a story like this and each time he hears it, his blood boils over with anger. You don’t deserve that. He wants to be the one that finally makes you feel like you can be loved. Angel has seen you look at yourself in the mirror with an odd look on your face since you were kids, but he’d never made anything of it until you were older. 

It became more clear to him when you’d moved in with him after your last roommates had moved out. You couldn’t exactly afford a lot on a librarian’s salary. The more time he spent around you, the more he put two and two together, but he never said a word unless you brought it up. It wasn’t his place.

“What a dumbass,” Angel hears the water slosh some more and watches as you peak your head out from behind the curtain. Your eyes are red and puffy and lips chapped.

“If he woulda stuck around, he woulda seen how great you are.”

You roll your eyes, “I don’t want your pity, Angel.”

“It’s not pity,” he presses his lips into a thin line. It really isn’t. It’s the truth.

“It is,” you sigh and pull away, “Give me a minute and I’ll be out of here.”

You pull the drain and Angel runs his hands through his hair. He saw this going better. 

* * *

You’re excited this time, more so than usual. He can feel it radiate off of you as you travel from your room to the bathroom, a spring in your step and a smile on your face that just wouldn’t damper. 

“Hey, Angel?”

He takes a swig of his beer and looks your way, “Yeah?”

You walk out in a small black dress. Long sleeves and ruffles at the bottom and it just looks so you, “Can you zip me up?”

He nods. It’s an easy enough task but why does he feel like his bones are being filled with lead as he steps closer to you? His hand skims over your exposed back, frowning at the nude fabric that stretches across your skin. He feels your muscles tighten and back straighten. Angel looks down at you, craning his head to get a look at your face, but you turn away. 

“My mom always made me wear spanx with a dress to cover up my rolls,” you explain in a hushed voice. 

“Isn’t it a little hot to be wearing it?” Angel pulls the zipper up, gently urging you to take it off. You had no reason to wear it. If this date couldn’t handle any rolls or perceived imperfections, did he really deserve you? 

“I bet you’d look just as bea— nice without it.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because I do.”

His mouth twitches but he lets it go. There’s no use in ruining your happiness with a forced conversation, “Okay.”

You go back into your room and don’t make another appearance for another half hour. He’s finished three beers by then. 

You look around the shared apartment, searching for your keys and purse when he catches a glimpse of you. He swears that his heart damn near stops at the sight of you. Angel hardly ever sees you before your dates, always catching you at the end when your hair starts to curl from sweat and accidentally sinking too far into the tub, where mascara has gathered beneath your eyes, the black turning grey. He catches the way you rub your skin raw and red eyes. He wishes he could take that pain away. 

It’s only so much worse when he realizes how excited you get and how your devastation has come close to just being apathy and numbness from how many times it has happened. It’s fucked up that this is how it’s going.

“Don’t wait up!” you shout as you walk out the front door. He will though or at least try to. Angel doesn’t want it to go bad for you, but if it does, he won’t complain. It gives him more time to gather the courage to say what he needs to say.

* * *

You stumble through the door, buzzed and light headed and happy as can be. For once in a long time, you feel good about a date. He hadn’t even blinked when he saw you. He smiled and went to give you a brief hug. He was eager and all eyes were on you. He gave no passing glances to the other women around you. You felt like you were beautiful, truly beautiful, for the first time in your life. 

You trip over the rug in the entrance and giggle, clasping a hand to the hooks on the wall where Angel’s kutte hangs and where your purse usually goes. For now, you drop it on the floor and opt to head to your bedroom. He’d kissed you on the cheek and you couldn’t stop stroking the spot. He told you he couldn’t wait to see you again. 

A light flicks on from the hallway and you see Angel’s silhouette. 

“Oh! I’m sorry,” you try to keep your voice down, but it’s so hard for you to regulate that when you’ve been drinking. 

“‘S okay,” Angel runs a hand through his hair, “So, it went okay?”

“Amazing!” you clasp your hands over your mouth when you realize that you shouted and giggle.

He brushes his hands over your shoulders, steadying you on heels that stand a little too high. You wobble as you shift your weight, and even in your heels, you still strain to look up and meet his eyes. 

He was easily the most attractive boy in your grade, and while being friends with him and his family for most of your life, you had always harbored a crush on him that grew exponentially worse through the years. You weren’t sure if it came from a genuine feeling of love or just grew from the appreciation and admiration you held for him when he defended you.

It had hit you one day that you truly were in love with him right after graduation. Sitting by a bonfire, trying not to express your disgust with each sip of the (shitty and warm) beer you took, while Angel was babbling mindlessly, already having gone through three beers and five shots of tequila. Nothing he said made sense to you, your mind went foggy from the shots you’d downed with him (a competition that you easily won). But six words had stood out to you. 

_ “Ya know I love you, right?” _

Angel and you had traded those words back and forth countless times through the years and it was almost second nature to say it to him and for you to hear it from him, but this time it was different. His hand rested atop of yours and he looked you straight in the eye, no smirk in sight, just the small smile, almost nervous but ultimately held some semblance of confidence. He looked at you, eyes a little wider and hopeful. 

_ “Of course, I know.” _

Angel didn’t say a word about it the next day. So naturally, neither did you out of fear that you read too much into the look on his face and interpreted the way his voice softened as he spoke.

* * *

Your smile is dopey and all too happy, and for once, the lines on your face are not from stress. He bites the inside of his cheek. He wants nothing more than to be the cause of your joy. You place your hands over his wrists, stroking your thumbs at the skin there.

“Hi,” you whisper, trying to hold back your smile, but failing miserably. 

He raises an eyebrow, “Hi yourself.”

You giggle, unashamed in your actions. There’s nothing calculated about the way you move or how you compose yourself. He can always see the gears turning in your head, even when you’re relaxing, there’s always a precision to how you move, shoulders always slumped, back straight and stomach always held in. There’s always shortness of breath around you and he wonders if it’s from the exertion of trying to make yourself seem smaller. Of course, he gets peeks of you where you don’t care to think and mull over every word, every decision, and movement you make, but those are few and far between.

You’re bigger than life, loud and animated when you talk, always full of smiles and always ready to tumble with another man when they challenge you. It fades just as quickly as it comes. Just a single look at your reflection is enough to shut you down most days. A part of him wishes he didn’t notice the pattern, to continue living in ignorance so his heart won’t clench and become overtaken with grief when he sees the shift in your behavior.

“I’m gonna go to bed,” you take a step toward him and he can almost taste the vodka on your lips. 

Angel gulps, hands falling from your shoulder to your sides and landing on your hips. Your eyeliner is smudged in the outer corner of your eye and the burgundy lipstick is nothing more than a stain. You lean forward and kiss his cheek. It’s warm and a little wet and he can feel the remnants of your lipstick. He wants more, but not when you’re in this state, not when you’re flying high from your buzz and a good date that wasn’t with him.

He wants you.

He nods but doesn’t let go. It makes you grin as you place your hands above his, gently urging them off your body. You stink of sweat, alcohol and the faintest bit of your favorite perfume (vanilla) and another man’s cologne (bergamot and sandalwood) and it makes him sick. 

“G’night, Angel,” you pat his chest and vanish behind your door. 

* * *

A month breezes by and Angel couldn’t be happier about it. There’s a four-day run approaching and the thought of an escape from his apartment seems well earned. You’ve been deliriously, stupidly happy, and while he is more than happy about that—he’s ecstatic in fact, you’re finally the way you deserve—but a certain someone has also been attached at the hip with you. Angel wouldn’t care except that there’s something sinister beneath the smiles that—Mark? Mike?—gives him. (You would kill Angel if you knew he didn’t bother to remember his name.)

Maybe it’s nothing and he’s seeing what he wants to see and projecting his own contempt for the cookie cutter guy that lives in the next town over. He works some kind of business job and Angel can’t help but admit that that’s something you deserve. Someone with a steady—and not riddled with criminality and violence—job that pays more than adequately. He wouldn’t bring danger to your front door. 

He can’t stand the seed of jealousy that has been planted deep in his chest and taken root in his heart. Angel has no reason to be jealous, he’s never acted on his feelings and has pushed them aside, repressed them for years. He should be over you, but moving in together has only brought those feelings back.

A break from you will be good. And whatever quick fuck he finds in Vegas could be enough to dig out the jealousy and push him towards someone he can have. And while it might not be a long term cure, he’d much rather take the short term than nothing at all. But when he kisses a woman he doesn’t know and hardly remembers her name, something feels wrong. His chest clenches with it and shoulders heave under a weight he cannot determine. 

Drinking alone in a hotel room seems like a better alternative when the act is done and he is spent.

His dreams are filled with you.

Angel wakes in a sweat not even two hours later, grasping at the side table to turn on the lamp there and stumbles into the bathroom to wash his face. He wonders why he does this to himself.

* * *

You invited him to one of the club’s parties. Angel said he was more than welcome, he’d only hoped that you caught the way he gritted his teeth and how his jaw clenched as he extended the welcome.

EZ laughs and Coco smirks. What the hell do they know?

“If ya keep starin’ at him, you’re gonna burn holes in the back of his head,” Coco stated, bumping his shoulder against Angel.

“‘M not staring at him.”

“No, you’re right,” EZ grins, “You’re glaring at him.”

Angel rolls his eyes and tries to focus his attention on the game of pool in front of him. He’s losing, but that isn’t his fault. You keep distracting him and Mitch — he’s damn near sure his name is Mitch — keeps getting too close to you for Angel’s comfort.

He lines up the cue stick with the ball and bends over, trying to find the right angle, and right as he’s about to shoot the ball and hopefully land a winning shot, he looks up and sees you, you’re back pressed against the bar and your arms wrapped around Mitch’s neck, his hands on your hips and locking you into a very passionate kiss. 

Angel misses his shot and Coco lets out a bark of laughter and gestures for the money he is now owed.

* * *

You watch Angel stumble in with a girl in his arms, both pairs of eyes glassed over from the alcohol in their systems. You don’t say a word.

Silently, you watch them move from the entryway, knocking over an assortment of things, and moving haphazardly to Angel’s bedroom. The night is longer than you want it to be. You’re kept up by the moans of pleasure of the girl, the squeaking of Angel’s bed frame and his grunts.

It was supposed to just be you and Angel tonight, but he’d canceled on your plans for dinner. You had just assumed it had been something with the club. Oh, how you hate being wrong.

Somehow, this hurts more than the canceled plans, knowing that you were traded in for a drunk woman he picked up at the bar. Disposable as always.

You try your best to block out the sounds and drift to sleep.

* * *

The apartment is quiet; Angel feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand. He knows you’re home, your car is parked in your spot, but the apartment is never silent when you’re home. You always have something on for background noise. 

He toes off his boots, gently pushing them to the wall and drops his keys and wallet on the entryway table. 

Your name feels weird on his tongue. He hardly ever has a reason to say it, opting to call you a pet name. Angel doesn’t even remember the last time he said it. 

He walks to your door, knocking gently, “You in there?”

The door creaks when he opens it, whining in protest and another reminder for him to put oil on the hinges. 

As if the last month hadn’t even happened, he spots you curled under the blankets, damp spots on the sheets and a towel hanging off the side of your bed. Your eyes are red and swollen, cheeks tear-stained and shining in the low lighting that filters through the blinds. 

His heart seizes up in his chest.

“What happened?”

You only sniff in response. He’s gentle when he closes the door and gentler still when he sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for you, sweeping hair out of your face and biting the inside of his cheek. You look worse for the wear.

You don’t answer, even with gentle proddings on his end, and eventually, Angel knows that it’s time to throw in the towel. There’s no way he can coax anything from you.

Angel hardly plays a nurturing or comforting role, the few times that he has, he felt awkward about it and thrown way out of his element. You’ve always (and frequently) played that role. He hopes he can live up to what you need now. 

“When you’re ready to talk…” he doesn’t finish his sentence, hands gesturing a nonsensical pattern. He sees you nod out of the corner of his eye.

He rubs a hand over your arm and squeezes your shoulder. It’s the most he thinks he can do. He’s never been good with words—let alone words of comfort—but touch, touching is something that he can easily convey his emotions and words through. You shift and move to rest your head in his lap even though the position forces you to squeeze into a tight fetal position beneath your blankets.

Angel cups your cheek, stroking it with his thumb and slouches. You look up at him, eyes glassy and red-rimmed, and he can only guess what happened. 

“Said it was all a joke. A bet with his friends to see how desperate I was to get laid.”

He notices then the scratch marks on your arms and over your chest and he feels something boil in his chest. Rage.

“I scrubbed and scrubbed and I couldn’t feel clean. He used me and I fell for it. I’m so stupid, Angel.”

“Did he…” Angel can’t finish the sentence. Too scared of the word that could fall from his lips, but you know all too well what he tries to say.

“No. He told me after and laughed at me.”

He strokes his thumb over your cheek and lets out a breath. He relaxes, only momentarily, before the rage comes back, the disgust and desire to hurt the man who hurt you rises and rises until it gives way to concern when he hears you sniffle against his thigh. No one could take precedence over you, not now.

* * *

He’d gently urged you to get dressed and walked with you to the small table that could hardly be considered a dining table. He hands over a mug of coffee and sits silently, waiting for you. Angel watches your expression carefully, but the only thing he can read is apathy.

“Angel, do you know how hard it is?” you cup the mug in your hands, stroking your thumb over the lip of it. “Of course, you don’t. You’ve always been oblivious to it. People didn’t mess with me when you were around. But as soon as you left… I’m sure you can guess. Teenagers are cruel.”

He swallows. He knows exactly what you’re talking about. He was never oblivious to it, but only extended his help when he could and just enough to keep suspicion of the other students at bay, lest they begin to suspect that there was something between the two of you. Angel wouldn’t have been able to handle the scrutiny under accusing and confused eyes. The whispers amongst the halls and rumors that a relationship would cause would be too much for you, too much for him. The last thing he wanted was for you to get hurt.

“You remember that night at the bonfire?”

Angel blanches at that. Yes, he remembers it. He remembers that night vividly and revisits the even often before he turns in for the night, staring at his white ceiling, trying to think of a way to turn back time and make the outcome different. Angel won’t admit this to anyone, least of all you, but he fantasizes sometimes, creating an intricate world where maybe he wasn’t such a pussy the day after and had told you completely sober about his feelings.

“You told me you loved me and I was so happy to hear that. I swear my heart coulda jumped out of my chest when you said that because I had loved you for  _ so  _ long and hearing you say those words and genuinely mean it in a way that wasn’t just in a platonic way, I could have soared. But you were drunk and delirious, and I let myself believe it was true for a moment. And then I remembered that people like you and people like me, we aren’t meant to be together. You proved me right when you didn’t say anything the next day.”

“You could have said something.” Angel brushes his hand against yours across the table.

“And what? Be laughed at?”

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” his stare hardens. Do you think that low of him? “You know that.”

You click your tongue and look down at his hand, avoiding his eyes. He looks down too and notices just how different your hands are. His skin is calloused and hardened from working in the scrap yard and from the grips of his motorcycle’s handles. Only the smallest of calluses exist on your hands. You were lucky, only ever having to work hard in a way that didn’t require so much physical labor. Your skin is soft while his is dried and cracked in some areas from the harsh sting of the air against his hands. He’s fallen out of the habit of using lotion and his riding gloves.

“I know, but you know me, Angel. I’m scared.”

He can’t stand the meekness in your voice. That’s not who you are.

“I do love you,” Angel takes in your light inhale of air, but it feels like you’ve sucked the room dry of it, or maybe it’s just the anxiety crawling down his throat that begs him to stop, to run before he makes a mistake. He swallows, “Still. More than you’ll ever know. More than I can probably ever say.” 

“You don’t mean that.”

He furrows his brow. Isn’t this what you wanted to hear? Wouldn’t it have made you happy to hear these words?

* * *

“You don’t mean that.” you regret it as soon as it leaves your mouth.

You watch in horror as his brow furrows and take in the lines that crease his forehead in concentration and the slight frown that now adorns his lips. You hate it. There’s nothing more that you would like to do that smooth out the creases and bring back a smile to his face.

“Why can’t I say it?” he finally says, his hand clenched into a fist before relaxing when you place your hand atop of it.

“Because,” you hate how your voice cracks, “I’m not the kind of girl you deserve. You deserve someone smaller, thinner, who you can actually pick up and show off to your friends. Someone who you won’t get embarrassed by. I get embarrassed for you whenever we go out together. We wouldn’t make sense to-”

“Shut up,” his voice is low and his eyes are somehow darker than usual. You pull your hand away from his, “You don’t get to decide who I love or who I want. I want you. All of you.”

“No, you don’t,” you lean back, “Trust me.”

“Yes, I do. More than anything. You’re all I’ve wanted since we were stupid fuckin’ teenagers. Nothing, no one compares to you.”

“Don’t say this out of pity. I know the women you see. They’re so… beautiful. So small and delicate. They fit perfectly with you.”

He shakes his head, “Stop it. I love you. Every inch of you, every piece. Nothin’ can change that.”

You watch, almost an outsider to yourself when he raises from his chair and stands in front of you, grabbing the edge of the table to help steady himself as he kneels in front of you. His hands are warm on your knees, thumbs rubbing circles on the inside of them. 

“Trust me,” his eyes shine when he looks up at you, trying so hard to muster a smile, “I love you.”

“I… I love you too, Angel.”

It’s your turn to comfort him as he lays his head in your lap. You run your hands through his hair, still unable to grasp the fact that he does love you, but your heart is ahead of you. It’s light in your chest, singing a song in your veins of pure joy. 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!!


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